


Homecoming

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, flufffff, soppy sweet romantic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a long time to get from Sydney to London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PUNIFA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PUNIFA/gifts).



Iain pinned his mobile hazardously against his cheek as he struggled to extract his passport from his pocket. “Plane touches down just after ten,” he explained. “If there are no cock-ups, I’ll be home by midnight.”

On the opposite side of the world, Greg set a fresh cup of tea on the coffee table before sprawling out on the couch. “You’ve ruined it now.”

“What?”

“You can’t say ‘if there are no cock-ups’. That’s asking for it.”

Iain smiled. “Just after midnight then.”

“All right, Cinderella. I’ll leave the lights on.”

They hung up. There was never an ‘I love you’ or an ‘I miss you’ at the end of their phone calls. They didn’t need it. They never had. If anything, it was implied every time they picked up the phone when they were apart. 

But four days later -- Iain wished he’d said it anyway.

He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. His glasses slid down to the end of his nose and his eyes slowly closed. If they slipped off and broke, it’d just be the icing on the cake -- but he didn’t have the energy to stop them. At his side, Søren snored quietly. Every so often the Dane would tip to over, resting his head on Iain’s shoulder. And then just as frequently, he’d wake up with a grunt, blearily looking around, and then slowly drift off again. 

If Iain wasn’t careful, he’d be unconscious in a matter of seconds as well -- and no train on earth would be able to rouse him. 

He opened his eyes as wide as he could, staring at the empty, dark tracks. It hurt like hell, but the pain was stimulating -- just enough to keep him going. 

Søren grunted again. Iain looked over his shoulder at him, smiling at the way the Dane’s mouth was hanging open. But he caught his own reflection on the side of the bin next to them, and winced. The lenses of his glasses magnified the redness of his eyes, and the puffy, dark bags beneath him. He looked like Death -- and he felt like he was in hell.

A dull clattering noise echoed down the tracks. 

Iain elbowed Søren lightly in the side and straightened up. The Dane whined -- it was pitiful, in a cute way -- and craned his neck until he’d coaxed half a dozen little pops out of it. 

Iain didn’t blame him. After four days of delayed and cancelled flights, of broken phone chargers and sudden, miserable storms, they still weren’t home. The Heathrow Connector would take them to Paddington Station. Paddington would take Søren to wherever it was he lived, and Iain to a tube station nearish to home. Ish. Or maybe he’d get a cab -- he hadn’t decided yet. 

He couldn’t really think at the moment. He could only follow the age old routine in the hopes that eventually -- even if it meant sleep-walking the last few hundred feet -- he’d somehow end up at the right door.

Maybe if he was very lucky, someone would come downstairs and carry him up.

That would be lovely. 

His eyes closed slowly as he thought about it. The warm embrace, that rustic, grassy smell from an afternoon playing football with his mates. Being held tight and held like he wasn’t just loved -- like he was needed.

Søren smacked him in the back of the head just as he started to tip over. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, stooping to pick up his bag. His back ached; his jaw twinged. His mouth felt dry, and Jesus Christ, if he didn’t get a chance to brush his teeth soon, he was going to have to cement his lips together for the rest of eternity. Some aspects of haphazard travel were just genuinely indecent. 

They shuffled on to the train, found two seats near the door, and collapsed again. Pressing his face against the cold glass window, Iain prayed silently.

Please. Just let him make it home. 

He crawled out of the tube station with his bag slung over his shoulder. His feet dragged against the concrete. His shoes caught on every single stair on the way up, but not too long after getting out he made it. He was above ground and trudging down the long street. 

According to his watch, it was just before dawn. The sky was still black; the street lamps shone brightly by contrast. But time had lost all meaning for him. The hour didn’t register -- nevermind the actual day. He pulled himself slowly from one moment to the next, struggling to ignore how dark and comfortable and sweet each alleyway seemed as he passed. 

The buildings began to blur. He stopped, took a deep breath, and looked up at a long, brick façade that felt like something he’d encountered in a previous life.

How he made it to his own door, he honestly couldn’t say. He shoved his key into the lock; he very nearly collapsed against the frame and stayed there, but whether by magic, or god’s will, or sheer dumb luck -- it opened. 

He slowly pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Greg was fast asleep on the couch under a thin blanket. 

But more than that, he realised -- every light in the flat was still on.


End file.
